The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming

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СКАЧАТЬ His angle certainly sounds like a pitch, although the notion is ridiculous. More likely Saul is simply adhering to that part of his nature that has always annoyed me and which I had somehow allowed myself to forget; namely, the moralizing do-gooder, the self-righteous evangelist busily saving others whilst incapable of saving himself.

      ‘So what do you suggest I do?’

      ‘Just come home. Just put an end to this phase of your life.’

      The idea is certainly appealing. Saul is right that there are times when I look back on what happened in London with nostalgia, when I regret that it all came to an end. But for Kate’s death and the exhaustions of secrecy, I would probably do it all again. For the thrill of it, for the sense of being pivotal. But I can’t state that directly without appearing insensitive.

      ‘No. I like it here. The lifestyle. The climate.’

      ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Seriously.’

      ‘Well then, at least don’t change your mobile phone every three weeks. And just get one email address. Please. It pisses me off and annoys your mum. She says she still doesn’t know why you’re out here, why you don’t just come home.’

      ‘You’ve talked to Mum?’

      ‘Now and again.’

      ‘What about Lithiby?’

      ‘Who’s Lithiby?’

      If Saul is working for them, they have certainly taught him how to lie. He runs his finger along the wall and inspects it for dust.

      ‘My case officer at Five,’ I explain. ‘The guy behind everything.’

      ‘Oh, him. No, of course not.’

      ‘He’s never been to see you?’

      ‘Never.’

      Someone turns the music up beyond a level at which we can comfortably speak, and I have to shout at Saul to be heard.

      ‘So where did you put the disks?’

      He smiles. ‘In a safe place.’

      ‘Where?’

      Another grin. ‘Somewhere safe. Look, nobody’s ever been to see me. Nobody’s ever been to see your mum. It’s not as if…Alec?’

      Julian Church has walked into the bar. Six inches taller than anyone else in the room and dressed like a Royal Fusilier on weekend leave. There are certain things that cannot be controlled, and this is one of them. He spots me immediately and does a little electric shock of surprise.

      ‘Alec!’

      ‘Hello, Julian.’

      ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘Night on the tiles?’

      ‘Apparently. And you?’

      ‘The very same. My beloved wife fancied a drink, and who was I to argue?’

      Julian, as ever, is delighted to see me, but I can feel Saul physically withdrawing, the cool of Shoreditch and Notting Hill reacting with violent distaste to Julian’s tasselled loafers and bottle-green cords. I should introduce them.

      ‘Saul, this is Julian Church, my boss at Endiom. Julian, this is Saul Ricken, a friend of mine from England.’

      ‘Ah, the old country,’ Julian says.

      ‘The old country,’ Saul repeats.

      Think. How to deal with this? How do I get us away? A chill wind comes barrelling in through the open door, drawing irritated looks from nearby tables. Julian hops to it like a bellboy, muttering ‘Perdón, perdón,’ as he shuts out the cold. ‘That’s a bit better. Bloody chilly in here. Bloody noisy, too. Señora Church won’t be far behind me. She’s parking the car.’

      ‘Your wife?’ Saul asks.

      ‘My wife.’ Julian’s pale skin is flushed and pink, his widow’s peak down to a few fine strands. ‘Madness to drive into town on a Friday night, but she insisted, like most of her countrymen, and who was I to argue? You staying the weekend?’

      ‘A bit longer,’ Saul replies.

      ‘I see, I see.’

      This is clearly going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. The four of us locked into two or three rounds of drinks, then awkward questions later. I try to keep my eyes away from the door as Julian takes off his coat and hangs it on top of Saul’s. Do I have an exit strategy? We could lie about meeting friends at a club, but I don’t want to arouse Julian’s suspicion or risk a contradiction from Saul. Best just to ride it out.

      ‘Did you get my email?’ Julian asks, and I am on the point of responding when Sofía walks in behind him. She does well to disguise her reaction; just a flat smile, a clever look of feigned recognition, then fixing her gaze on Julian.

      ‘Darling, you remember Alec Milius, don’t you?’

      ‘Of course.’ It doesn’t look like she does. ‘You work with my husband, yes?’

      ‘And this is his friend, Saul…Ricken, was it? They were here quite by chance. A coincidence.’

      ‘Ah, una casualidad.’ Sofía looks beautiful tonight, her perfume a lovely sense memory of our long night together at the hotel. She uncurls a black scarf, takes off her coat, kisses me lightly on the cheek and gently squeezes Julian at the elbow.

      ‘We’ve met before,’ I tell her.

      ‘Sí. At the office, yes?’

      ‘I think so.’

      Once, when Julian was away on business, Sofía came down to the Endiom building in Retiro and we fucked on his desk.

      ‘I thought you two met at the Christmas party.’

      ‘I forget,’ Sofía replies.

      She places her scarf on the surface of the cigarette machine and affords me the briefest of glances. Saul appears to be humming along to the music. He may even be bored.

      ‘So what’s everybody drinking?’

      Julian has taken a confident stride forward to coincide with his question, breaking up the huddle around us by dint of his sheer size. Saul and I want cañas, Sofía a Diet Coke.

      ‘I’m driving,’ she explains, directing her attention at Saul. ‘Hablas español?’

      ‘Sí, un poco,’ he says, suddenly looking pleased with himself. That was clever of her. She wants to know how much she can get away with saying.

      ‘Y te gusta Madrid?’

      ‘Sí. Mucbo. Mucho.’ He СКАЧАТЬ